Why my mother didn’t leave my father, I don’t know—maybe she wanted to, and maybe she’d even tried. She spent a lot of time praying. When I was twelve and got my first period—she’d never sat me down for “the talk,” so even armed with sex ed and biology, it took me half the day to realize what was happening—she waved me out of the room, as usual, without opening her eyes or lifting her head. I rummaged in the cupboard under her bathroom sink and helped myself to her supply of tampons. Another two months went by before she noticed.
Back then, my favorite companion was nonhuman. That year, when my father was home for my birthday, he took me to the shelter to adopt a cat—an orange tabby I named Ginger. He’d done this without my mother’s knowledge, and when we got home, she refused to let Ginger inside. “I don’t want dirt and fleas in my house,” she told us. I was allowed to set up a bed in the garage for Ginger, who spent her days outside, and my father installed a cat door. But I left my bedroom window open at night, and when I called her, she would walk along the roof’s gutter and climb in; eventually I’d find her waiting there as soon as I opened the window. Sometimes she would bring me a dead mouse, which I tossed out into the yard. Ginger snuggled with me all night—I liked having her furry body next to me, her light heartbeat—and she woke me every morning around dawn, before my parents got up, as if she knew we’d both be punished if we got caught, and I’d open the window for her to slip out again.
The wild kingdom had always appealed to me more than the human one, but it wasn’t until I watched the Adélies feeding their chicks that I saw my family reflected in their -behavior. The female Adélie makes her fluffy, charcoal--colored chicks chase her around for food; the chicks tumble over each other to eat, and one invariably goes hungrier than the other—but their mother wants to ensure that the stronger chick, the one most likely to survive and usher in a new generation, will get the most attention, the most food. To my own mother, I was the weaker chick: As soon as she realized I was more interested in grad school than in marriage, she focused her attention on my brother, who settled down with his college sweetheart, Cheryl; he remained in suburban St. Louis, where he played the role of faithful son year-round, no travel required. When I called home to tell my mother I’d gotten accepted to graduate school, she said, “Did you hear Cheryl’s pregnant again?” That was all.
I suspect she turned her attention to my brother because he’d replaced my father in so many ways, but he was also her only other chance at family—Mark and Cheryl, the happy couple, their three kids. Mark never bent or broke the rules; he didn’t find things he wasn’t supposed to, or, if he did, he never spoke of them. I’d been the one to force my mother to acknowledge what she hadn’t wanted to see, and I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.
It became clear six years ago, the last time I was home for the holidays. Helping my mother prepare Christmas dinner, I watched her put a place card for my father on the dining room table, even though he hadn’t been home for Christmas for the past two years. Earlier, she’d sent me out to the liquor store for the Scotch he liked because we were out. And when I scooped chopped onions into the vegetarian stuffing I was making, she let out a gasp, then insisted I take them out. “Your father hates onions, remember?” she said.
I looked down into the mixing bowl; the onions were still on top, and I sighed and began to spoon them out. She stood over my shoulder, watching, then pointed out a few bits of onion that had slipped down the side of the bowl.
“When are you going to stop?” I asked her. “Just because you make everything perfect doesn’t mean he’s going to magically appear.”
She stared at me with her flat gray eyes, then reached over and yanked the bowl away. “I’ll do it, then,” she said.
“Mom—”
She picked up a knife and began to scrape the rest of the onions from the cutting board into the garbage. “If this is your idea of help, I don’t need it,” she said and waved the knife in my direction, as if for emphasis. “Go on.”
I stood there for a moment, but she ignored me, so I left the kitchen and stepped out the back door, taking comfort in the cold.
Now I look out the library’s view window, doubting whether I’m equipped for what’s ahead—marriage, parenthood—when my relationship with Keller has so far been as precarious as the lives of the penguins. For us as well as them, everything depends on near-perfect timing, and as I stare at the ring he’s given me, as much as I want to bring our lives together, finally, for good, I wonder if such a future is possible for me, the weaker chick.
ONE YEAR BEFORE SHIPWRECK
Booth Island